


Alone

by magician



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, Drama, Gen, Pre-Canon, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magician/pseuds/magician
Summary: Jim wakes up alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday. Prompt was "sink"

Captain Jim Ellison came to consciousness all at once, sitting up and breathing hard as if from a nightmare. _Assess the situation._ He was alone in a small hut.  He had been lying on a simple mat that was worn but clean.  He took inventory of his body first.  Aches all over, but no broken bones. A few tears in his uniform had him examining gashes in various places.  All wounds had been cleaned and dressed, but with an unfamiliar binding material. Nothing looked infected. He could move all his parts; the discomfort was tolerable.  
  
He took stock of the hut.  Another mat was rolled up in a corner. Some bowls were nearby.  He sniffed carefully.  One had a muddy-looking liquid that smelled medicinal. He suspected that was what was on his wounds.  Another bowl had what looked like water in it; he wasn't thirsty enough to test it.  In another corner lay his equipment--everything that he had been wearing, including his gun, utility belt, jacket, helmet and boots.  
  
Not quite ready to stand, he crawled over.  The helmet was intact but had quite a dent in it.  He expected that's why he felt a little woozy--mild concussion.  He put on his boots and gun belt, already feeling less vulnerable. He moved over to the entrance, trying to listen to get an idea of where he was, when he had a sudden flash of memory.  
  
_The pilot screamed out orders, warning everyone to get into brace position.  Jim had unlocked his seatbelt and kicked open the nearest door, hoping desperately that he could spy a good landing site. A water landing would be the best, but nothing blue was in sight.  He saw a patch of smooth green amidst the darkness of the trees and pointed it out to the pilot.  Henderson tried to work the failing aircraft and it looked as if they might make it until the skids clipped the trees. Jim was knocked out of the door and fell through thin air, landing with a thump.  Darkness enveloped him and he didn't hear the subsequent crash._  
  
Where were the rest of the men?  Listening, Jim was surprised that he could hear people outside the hut clearly.  They were either close by or they were loud.  He recognized a few words from his survival preparations and sighed in relief--Quechua, not Spanish.  So he was in a native village, not with the insurgents.  It made sense, since they'd left his gun and he wasn't tied up.  _You must have gotten cracked harder than you thought, not to figure that one out_.  
  
Just as he was getting ready to peek, the hut flap opened and a man stepped in.  Although his face was almost entirely covered with red paint, Jim could see that he looked calm and kind.  He spoke too fast for Jim's pathetic vocabulary to understand, but his voice was melodious and comforting.  He picked up the bowl with water and offered it to Jim.  When Jim hesitated, he drank some himself, then offered again with a single Chopec word: "water".  Jim drank it gratefully.  
  
The man checked Jim's wounds, unworried that Jim was armed and much larger.  After he nodded his satisfaction about the dressings, he pointed to himself.  "Incacha".  He pointed to Jim, but Jim said nothing, not understanding.  The man pointed to the water: "water".  He  pointed to himself: "Incacha".  He pointed to Jim.  Jim answered "Ellison.  Captain James Ellison."  Incacha nodded.  
  
Remembering a few more words, Jim pointed outside and asked, "My men?'  Incacha nodded solemnly and led the way outside.  To his surprise, no one was near the hut; in fact it was set apart from the others, looking as if it had been done quite deliberately.  He wondered whether Incacha was a chief.  There was no time for further speculation.  Incacha called out and almost immediately a dozen warriors were standing in front of them.  Incacha beckoned Jim to follow as the group took off.  
  
The men moved fast, and Jim in his weakened condition was hard pressed to keep up with them.  In less than an hour they were at the clearing Jim spotted from the air. His being thrown from the chopper was the only thing that saved him.  Had he been strapped in, he would have been crushed like the others.  Fortunately, they all seemed to have died immediately upon impact. Small mercies.  
  
In that moment it sunk in: Jim was truly alone.  
  
Jim buried all the emotions that threatened to crush him, concentrating on the work that had to be done.  First he pulled out the bodies and laid them one next to another.  The jungle was warm, and he would need to bury them as soon as possible.  He climbed into the wreck and found some tools, picking a field shovel.  
  
The ground wasn't hard, but it still wasn't an easy task to dig down the required six feet. Incacha and the warriors watched him without speaking.  He didn't know enough Chopec to ask them to help, but it didn't matter; this was his responsibility.  He took Henderson's dog tags off, leaving one inside his shirt next to his heart.  He filled the grave, then hung the other tag on the grave marker.  He prepared for the next burial.  
  
As one, the Chopec rose.  Apparently they had been watching Jim in order to understand his burial ritual, because they followed it precisely. Half of them found more shovels in the copter and started digging graves. Meanwhile, two men attended the bodies; cleaning and laying them out near each grave. Incacha started chanting over each body.  Jim realized he must be the shaman.  Two men pulled Jim to the chopper, indicating with hand signs that Jim point out what was useful. They then started a pile while two more men created travois.  
  
When the last dog tag was hung and the last prayers were said, the group loaded the travois and headed back to the village.  Jim was led to the local stream to bathe with the others.  It was cold and refreshing and he felt renewed.  Dressed in fresh camo, he followed them back to the village center, where bowls of stew were being passed around.  He was handed a bowl and was almost overwhelmed by the strong odor. _They must use a lot of herbs_. Then Incacha touched his arm, indicating that he should sit next to him. Suddenly, the stew smelled delicious. He dug in hungrily and did his best to understand what he could of the soft, soothing words.  
  
It was starting to sink in that Jim was not alone.


End file.
